


Playing in the Rain

by lifeofsnark



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, PWP, The Author Regrets Nothing, but - Freeform, this is just porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-04
Updated: 2015-06-04
Packaged: 2018-04-02 19:18:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4071544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lifeofsnark/pseuds/lifeofsnark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A stranger named Dean stumbles into the motel where you work one afternoon during a rainstorm. PWP ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Playing in the Rain

A crack of thunder brought you out of your daydream with a jolt, and you moved out from behind the reception desk to pull up the old, yellowed blinds hanging on the motel’s front windows. Rain pelted down onto the old, cracked pavement of the empty parking lot and wind blew the low scrub and hardy little flowers that grew in the sandy soil, ruffling their leaves.

You opened the window and moved to do the same with its twin, reveling in the storm. It was one of those infamous coastal blow-overs, a pressure system that flew inland and could turn a sunny day dark in a matter of minutes, rain pouring down out of the sky like God was rethinking his promise to Noah, lightning cracking overhead, leaving the air smelling of ozone and fresh beginnings.

You smiled a little to yourself. Your last guests had left this morning, and it was unlikely anyone would be on the roads in this. You got behind the reception desk and huddled down behind the tall counter. Carefully you slid the arms through the sleeves of your shirt, but without taking it off unsnapped your bra and pulled the constraining thing out the bottom.

After righting your apparel, stashing your bra in your purse, and putting on an old, worn university sweatshirt you grabbed your book- for an online college lit course, you couldn’t let your mind completely atrophy due to this summer job- and settled in for some reading.

Frankenstein’s Monster had just explained how he came to be literate to the doctor- _that_ _conceited asshole_ you muttered under your breath- when the lobby door swung open and a large, dripping wet man walked into the room.

You sat up, startled, and dropped your book to the floor with a dull thud. The room was quiet for a suspended moment- just your accelerated breathing, the steady drip of water off his clothes, and the rumble of thunder and rain outside- and then he smiled at you and the moment broke.

“Hey, I’m Dean Smith, I was driving around in _this,”_ he gestured to the weather occurring outside the open windows, “and I saw your vacancy sign. I was hoping to get a room, and a couple of towels.” He ginned, and your brain just shut off.

He had freckles scattered over his cheeks and nose, cinnamon against the lighter tan of his face. His hair was dark from the rain, little pieces of it threatening to curl, but it would probably be a light brown when it dried. His eyes (which were framed with lashes no man should have), _oh god those eyes,_ were twinkling at you, the color of sunshine filtered through late August leaves; gold flecked green.

“Um, yeah,” you mumbled eloquently, and shoved the registry card at him, _a registry card for god’s sake, when would the owners finally bring this place into the appropriate century._ You swiped his card on the slow little machine and passed him the usual two-copy statement to sign, watching him all the while.

He was in boots and worn jeans which were tight in all the right places- crotch, ass, thighs- and the denim pulled down low on his narrow hips, heavy with rainwater. He was in a navy blue t-shirt which stretched tight over his shoulders, polka dotted with a few damp spots. _He must have had something on over it_ you mused before catching him smirking at you.

_Fuck, he’d caught you ogling._

“Towels?” he asked again with a smirk, quirking one eyebrow.

You hurried off into the back, heading straight to the drier which had just ground to a squealing stop. You grabbed out three of the plain cotton towels- still warm- hastily folded them, and turned to rush back to the front-

At which point you came face to face with Dean- _Mr. Smith,_ you mentally corrected yourself.

He was standing in the doorway to the laundry/storage room, leaning against the frame, hip cocked casually, a lazy shit-eating grin on his face; a cat with a whole punch-bowl of cream. He kicked the door shut with a swing of his boot-clad foot.

He stalked towards you slowly, never breaking eye-contact, letting you watch the way his muscles moved under his glistening skin as he prowled. He stopped dead when he was nose to nose with you, when you could feel the heat pouring off his body.

Ducking his head to the side he placed his lips on yours and rubbed a little before sucking your bottom lip between his teeth. He didn’t touch you anywhere else, you had the towels clutched to your chest between you, and your entire being focused on just those nerve endings, that one point of erotic sensation.

He drew back, green eyes darkened like a jungle creature, to scan over your flushed face. He made a low noise of approval before jerking the towels away from you, tossing them casually onto the floor somewhere behind you, and laying his lips back over yours, his arms banding behind your back. This was nothing like the first kiss, you’d been found receptive of his attentions and now they were all focused on you, mind and body. This was a wet, humid kiss, owning and exploring. He backed you further into the room, the wet heat of his body pressed against yours from thighs to chest, guiding you back, back, back.

Your hands scrabbled behind you, looking for something solid in this hot, shifting world of _Dean,_ his lips cruising from your eyes to your jaw to the soft spot behind your ear, licking and nibbling as he went. Finally you felt the edge of the clean laundry cart behind you and you grabbed for it but only succeeded in flipping it, sending a cascade of tangled sheets over the floor.

Suddenly your feet were dangling in the air- Dean’s hands were under your ass and he lifted you up against him, your thighs tightening around his torso instinctively, and he sank to his knees in the pile of laundry, his lips never leaving your skin, his breath hot and quick.

You kept your fingers clenched in his hair but pulled back. “Desk,” you gasped, but he got the message.

“I put up the sign,” he smirked.

“Confident in your abilities, huh,” you teased, breathless, your fingers finding the hem of that blue shirt and yanking it up. He raised his arms obligingly, and soon you pressed against the smooth skin of his hard chest, exploring each nipple, scar, and freckle with your teeth and tongue.

Dean’s broad hands, never still for long, snaked under the hem of your sweatshirt and up over the soft skin of your tummy, not stopping until he reached the curve of a breast. He groaned when he realized your weren’t wearing a bra, and flipped your onto your back, unceremoniously yanking both your shirt and sweatshirt off over your head.

“God, so pretty, gotta taste ‘em,” he rumbled before sucking a pebbled nipple, pearly pink, between his kiss-swollen lips. It had been a day or two since he shaved, and the rasp of his stubble over the untanned skin of your breast sent little coils of pleasurepain running through you, part of you excited by the possibility of wearing a mark of his loving under your clothes tomorrow.

Dean moved to the other breast and you started getting impatient, hands yanking at the worn brown leather belt snaked through the loops of his jeans.

“Nuh-uh.” He swatted your hands away before getting his broad fingers in the waistband of your shorts and underwear and yanking them down and off, spilling you backwards in the pile of laundry in the process.

You laughed at that, laughed at the idea that you were on your back, ass in the air, in front of this smoking-hot stranger, laughed at the freedom of it all, laughed at the sheer mind-clearing focus of sex.

Dean chuckled too, but in a predatory way, his palms sliding slowly up and down the skin of your thighs, still pale this early in the season. You lifted your head up to take a look, and that seemed to be the cue he was waiting for. Still petting your thighs he pulled them apart, bending his neck to kiss the rest of his way up your leg, beard gently scraping a trail up, up, up to your impatient pussy, the anticipation increasing exponentially.

When Dean finally ran out of skin to tease he parted your lips with his thumbs and nosed in without preamble, even his –apparently infinite- patience wearing thin. He ran his tongue up the center of you a few times, his saliva mixing with your slick, sucking little nips here and there.

“Dean!” you complained, bucking against him, starting to prop yourself up on your elbows.

“Nope,” he growled, spreading his fingers over your sternum and pushing you back down. “It’s still my turn, princess.”

You shivered a little at that, arousal only growing stronger, and Dean grinned a self-satisfied little smirk before sucking your clit into his mouth and turning your brain into a pile of mush.

Dean  clearly knew what he was doing and knew what he wanted; he exuded an air of confidence that said _I could fuck your for hours and do it right_ , and _god_ you believed him. He flipped first one calf, then the other over his shoulders, bracketing his dark, damp hair with your thighs. He stretched and arm up and tugged and rolled a nipple, adding even more stimulation to your already hormone-swamped system.

Those lips, those goddam lips that ought to come with a warning label, tugged and toyed with your hard little clit while two fingers snaked down to slide into your wet heat, curling and searching until they found a soft little spot that made your toes curl and a startled yelp escape your lips.

Dean’s shoulders shook beneath your legs and you thought he might be laughing because his attentions increased; he was now taking long pulls with his lips and rubbing, rubbing, rubbing little circles inside you.

Your stomach muscles began to jump, and he slid his hand down from your breast and over your belly to hold you in place, his palm resting over a tightening coil of heat and want and pleasure and finally it burst and you were coming so hard colors danced across the inside of your eyelids, the muscles in your limbs were beyond your control and you were shouting out _Dean_ and _god_ and _please_ and you didn’t know what you were asking for but Dean did, and he slowed to gentle laps, both thumbs now rubbing soothing circles over your hip bones.

You lay happy and boneless in the pile of sheets that would now have to be washed again, listening to the sound of a foil wrapper tear and feeling Dean, still in his damp jeans, moving up between your splayed legs.

He scooped one hand beneath a thigh, pressing your knee back towards your chest, and then he was sliding inside you, stretching you in all the right ways, slowly working his way into your mind and body more deeply with each thrust. He slid an arm under your back and wrapped his hand around your shoulder, anchoring you in place. His thrusts were powerful but smooth, a tremendous machine working fluidly and efficiently, the muscles in his back coiling and uncoiling beneath your fingers.

He was breathing in harsh pants, hot against the side of your neck, and you planted a foot against the tile floor and pushed back against him in perfect counterpoint, bringing the apex of your sex in contact with his pubic bone each time you rocked up to meet him.

“Gonna come with me, princess?” he growled, more of a command than a question, and insinuated his fingers against your cunt, letting the rocking movements of your body give you the friction you needed.

You clamped your inner muscles around him as tightly as you could, suddenly thankful that college roommate had forced you to read Cosmo, and triggered his own release, his hips stuttering fitfully against yours. As his cock slowly softened inside you Dean braced himself on one elbow and scissored your clit between two fingers, lightly tugging, finally knocking you over the edge and into your second bone-melting orgasm.

When you looked up again, content to let the last bit of come-induced brain-bliss fade, Dean was dropping the condom in the trashcan and peering thoughtfully out the window.

“Still raining?” you asked.

He nodded. “Yup,” he said, squatting down next to you, running a hand from your breast to your belly to your hip to your knee, admiring the way you laid lazily in the laundry heap.

You caught that shit-eating grin too late- by the time you realized something was up Dean already had both hands clamped around your waist and had tossed your naked body over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, jogging out of the laundry room, through the lobby, and out into the rain where he plunked your feet down in a puddle. You shrieked and tried to sprint back to the door but he blocked you, catching your under your arms and spinning you in a circle. You just tossed your head back and laughed; you had never imagined that one day you would find yourself playing naked in the rain out in your employer’s parking lot with a sexy stranger.

Holding hands you and Dean walked back into the laundry room where you toweled off, started a load of laundry, and unhurriedly put your clothes on.

“So when does the night clerk come in?” he asked, a speculative look in his eye.

“Nine,” you told him. “But after all, we could just leave a sign.”

For the rest of your life, when you woke up to the sound of rain pounding on the roof you would remember Dean; Dean taking you on the laundry room floor, Dean chasing you in the parking lot, Dean keeping you in that motel room for two days straight.

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked it, please let me know! I've just recently forayed into the world of smuttiness. (I'm also on tumblr at winchestersandwordprocessors with more fics and drabbles!) Thank you for reading!


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